A/N: So I'm not sure what this is. I'm definitely not supposed to be writing fanfic right now (in the middle of nanowrimo) but I couldn't help myself. Just a little nugget inspired by the promos for the fall finale of Revolution on Monday (which looks epic, btw). I don't remember them showing Nate/Jason, and the last we heard he'd been beaten up by the militia for worrying about Strausser's mission to kill the group. Here's one way they could work him in… slight fluff warning, concussed!Charlie and concerned!Jason.

It was evening when they finally reached the Nevilles' house. Charlie looked up at the imposing brownstone with three armed guards at the door and shot Miles an incredulous look.

"Why are we starting here, again?" she asked for the thirteenth time.

"Shut up, Charlie," he snapped with no real annoyance. It was more out of habit than anything else, at this point.

"I mean, why not use the distraction Nora and Aaron are going to create to actually get in and find Danny? Why involve Neville at all?" she pressed, wincing in annoyance as a door across the street slammed shut.

Miles looked down at her for a minute while she worked to ignore the pain in her head. It had only been about 24 hours since she was knocked unconscious when a bullet grazed her head and she fell into a concrete wall. He was worried about her; she'd been quieter and almost sluggish since then. She swore she was fine, and wouldn't stop to rest even when Aaron pushed her to slow down.

Her stubbornness was why he'd modified his plan a bit, even though Nora had told him he was adding unknowns to an already complicated equation.

"You just worry about blowing up the armory without dying or killing Aaron, ok?" he'd responded.

"You're such a softie," she said with a hint of a smile to hide the worry in her eyes. That had been unfair, so he'd kissed her, knowing the likelihood of living through the next day were miniscule. There was more than one way to change the topic, he thought with satisfaction.

By now, she and Aaron should be moving into position, and if everything on their end went well, those guards would go running in a matter of minutes.

He looked back down at Charlie, who was watching him with a crease on her forehead. Worry or pain, he didn't know.

"Ok, I'm going to scout the perimeter. You do not enter the building until I signal, is that clear?" he glared at her. "I mean it, Charlie."

She rolled her eyes, but nodded gingerly. Pain, he thought with a sigh, and then headed off.

Nora looked at the city of Philadelphia stretched out before her. Standing on the roof of the armory building, she could see to the river, could see the ruins of the sports stadiums, and to the buildings where the American Revolution had brewed in the minds of patriots oppressed by a mad king. A flash of light from across the street caught her attention.

The signal. That meant Aaron was in position and ready to head up to the roof of that building. It was the only one that was of equal height to the armory, and she needed him to, with one throw, toss the fuse that she would attach to her homemade bombs. They didn't need to be huge, just big enough to ignite some of the barrels of gunpowder stored in the building below her feet. She wondered where Charlie and Miles, the sneaky devil, were. If he thought they were done with that conversation just because she would rather be kissing him than arguing with him (by a very thin margin) if she was never going to see him again… well, she was determined to get through this alive. After all, she had a score to settle with her little sister, at the very least.

She shielded her eyes against the setting sun and looked across the street to see Aaron tentatively walk up to the edge of the building. She really hoped he was up for this. Her confidence in him had increased, a lot, since the incident at the poppy baron's place, but it was still a long throw. She'd coached him through it: tie off the end so you're SURE it won't come loose, get a running start, throw underhand so the arc is upward and not downward.

It was with pleasant surprise a minute or two later, then, that she saw the unraveling ball of fuse heading straight for her. It cleared the edge of the roof, not by much, but it was enough. She fell onto it, holding it steady and waved her mirror in his direction. Time to blow this popsicle stand.

The explosion lasted for a few minutes – that would be the gunpowder barrels they'd been talking about, Charlie told herself reassuringly. It built in noise, starting as a low rumble and then escalating to ear-splitting proportions. It only took about 90 seconds before the guards at the door of the Nevilles' took off running toward the noise. With the street clear, Charlie only waited another minute before she slipped up the steps and slid inside.

It was blessedly quiet inside, and she leaned back against the door, crossbow in hand, waiting to see if anyone would emerge. She tensed when she heard footsteps, and brought it up, aiming as well as she could.

Miles emerged from the hallway, his hand over the mouth of a pretty blonde woman she'd never seen before. He rolled his eyes to see her standing there, wide-eyed and shaky.

"Sorry, did I signal and not realize?" he asked sarcastically. "You know your job, Charlie. Upstairs, third bedroom. Keep him there till I come get you."

She nodded and scampered up the steps, not really wanting to participate in whatever was going to happen next. She had made Miles promise to her, no exceptions, that he would not really hurt Mrs. Neville. But she knew that Miles had his own code, and while he was honestly trying to live up to her expectations, she wasn't really, truly sure where his line was or when he was willing to cross it.

The home was stately, furnished and carpeted as though the blackout had never happened. It showed no wear and tear from revolts and thieves, and Charlie wondered what it must be like to live like this. Then she was standing in front of the third door, and a whole other set of questions sprang to life.

They'd eavesdropped on a military tavern when they first arrived, listening for any discussion of troop movements or travel by high-level officials. That was when they learned that there'd been a recent shake-up, with one of Monroe's top advisors being implicated in rebel activity because of his son. The son was dead, the officer not likely to emerge alive from the interrogation unit. But what had caught Charlie's attention was the implication that it had only been brought to Monroe because Neville had needed something to save his own son's skin. "Stupid kid" had his head screwed up about some rebel girl, and had been caught asking questions about a sensitive mission. Neville got him home alive, but just barely, according to the drunken lieutenant telling the tale. He hadn't been seen or heard from in the two weeks since.

So, she told herself, through this door was Nate. Jason Neville. Son of the man who killed her father, kidnapped her brother, and was ready to kill her on that stupid train. But he was also his own man, who'd saved her more than once, sometimes from militia, sometimes from criminals, and once from his father, throwing her off the train when ordered to turn her over to his father's custody. Beaten half to death because he'd been asking about a mission that had involved her.

Something shattered in the room below her feet, and she squeezed her eyes shut to try and block out the throbbing in her head that amplified any noise. She prayed Miles had that under control. He had promised her, and he did not like breaking promises.

She reached a hand out and turned the knob. The door swung inward, coming to a stop on the lush carpet. There was no shout, no sudden attack by a longbow, so she deemed it safe to edge slowly into the room.

He was lying in bed, asleep, it appeared. Her job would basically be to just guard the door until Miles came for her, then. She set her things down on the floor, carefully disengaging the crossbow and trying to be as quiet as possible. She closed the door and was about to sit down herself when curiosity got the better of her. It was dim in the room, likely to help him sleep, so she couldn't see much more than the outline of his face from the doorway. The drunk's words – alive, but just barely – echoed through her head and she padded over to the bed.

His nose was swollen and looked like it had maybe been broken and then fixed. There were fading bruises and scars all over his face, and some that had not yet faded poking out of the neck and arms of his t-shirt. He'd always been a light sleeper, so she was puzzled that she'd gotten so close without waking him, until she noticed a spoon and bottle on the nightstand. She picked it up and read Laudanum. Maggie had told her about it, and said it was only for use when someone absolutely could not sleep. It put them too far under, she'd said, and the dreams were often terrifying.

Unable to help herself, Charlie reached out a hand and ran her fingertips along the puckered edge of a scar on his forehead. This was her fault, somehow, she thought heavily, and her head pounded its agreement. Resolving not to bother him anymore, she leaned over to ghost a kiss onto his cheek.

Jason had been asleep for hours when the distant noises pulled him closer to wakefulness. The medicine that he hated so much had at least granted him that. For a moment, he thought he was hearing fireworks, that it was somehow the fourth of July and he'd slept through the show. And then he remembered that he wasn't 4 years old anymore, and rolled over in irritation.

That had been a mistake. His ribs were still tender and the quick motion had sent pain coursing through his body for a few breathless minutes as he'd lain as still as possible, waiting for it to pass. He was getting quite good at that, waiting out the pain. He'd almost made it to the other side of the spasm when two things happened that pulled him fully from slumber. Something shattered in the room below him, his father's study. Before he could react to that, though, the door to his room opened and someone stepped lightly inside.

He listened intently, lying perfectly still. There was a knife under his pillow if he needed it, and despite his injuries he was still faster than most militia grunts. He knew the sounds of his parents' footsteps, and those of the maid and nurse, and this person was too small, too light for that. A face crossed his mind and got his heart pounding a little faster. But it couldn't be her. Not here.

Still, as he lay there, listening, the sounds of gear being shed and leaned up against the wall were too similar to her daily routine: unload the crossbow, backpack down, hair braided to the side… he'd lain listening to her movements most nights while he was with them. Then she moved, and he could tell she was standing by the bed unarmed (the little idiot) and convinced that he was asleep. Her smell, although it was musky and damp as if she'd been underground, was unmistakably Charlie.

He forgot to breathe when he felt her fingers ghost over his forehead. The last time he'd touched her, he'd whispered in her ear before throwing her from a moving train. The smell of her hair still haunted him, and as she leaned over to drop a kiss on his cheek, Jason was suddenly done. He was done with patience and stealth and uncertainty. He opened his eyes and turned into her kiss, catching her lips with his own, and letting his left hand tangle in her hair at the back of her neck.

He felt her surprise and swallowed her gasp with another kiss. This time she melted into it, and every bone in Jason's battered body sang in triumph. Her hair slipped over her shoulder and fell across her face, so he reached a hand up to tuck it behind her ear. That's when he noticed the dried blood.

Charlie was just coming to terms with the fact that the man she'd been told was near death had come to life and kissed her until her head was spinning when he moved to push her hair behind her ear and then pulled back. Dazed blue eyes met his worried brown.

"Charlie, what happened to your head?" Jason sat up, pulling her into a sitting position too, and then pulled her face close to his so he could get a better look in the dim light. "That looks like a bullet graze."

"What? Oh. Uh, yesterday, in the subway." She was struggling to keep up, her body still floating and spinning on the wave of emotion. Or else she was just spinning. Really it would be great if that would stop. She could feel his eyes on her, and was at a loss. She didn't know what he wanted her to say.

"Tell me," he said seriously. It was standard training for officers to be taught basic medic work, identifying wound severity, recognizing concussions. And as much as he'd like to take full credit for the unfocused look in her eyes, he had a sinking suspicion that something more sinister was at play. He could see she was struggling a bit for balance.

"It's no big deal," she said finally, forcing her gaze back to his in a show of stubbornness. "The militia guy embedded in the rebels shot me after I shot him with my crossbow. I fell and hit my head and had a really weird dream about my dad, but I'm fine."

Jason's head was spinning for entirely different reasons. "Rebels? Charlie, where are Miles and Nora? Why are you here?" Kissing aside, he was starting to worry for his parents' safety.

She looked guilty and wouldn't meet his gaze. "He promised he won't hurt her," she whispered. "I didn't know what else to do. He said we had to come and make Neville talk."

Jason tensed, his whole body screaming to jump out of bed and run to his mother's aid. But he didn't know how many there were, and if Miles had promised Charlie she wouldn't be harmed… he was distracted when Charlie lurched to the side, her eyes unfocusing again for a minute. When he reached out to steady her, she pulled stiffly away, standing up and crossing her arms.

"I have to, I'm supposed to keep you here until he's ready for me," she said, bravado in her face. "So just stay there."

Jason took a moment to appreciate Matheson's brilliance. Miles knew that Charlie had a bad concussion, almost as surely as Charlie refused to admit any weakness and drove herself into the ground. He also knew that medical training was part of every officer's promotion. So he decided to settle a few things once and for all. He sent a weak Charlie to "guard" Jason, who could easily take her down despite a few broken ribs, and forced Jason to make a choice. He could try to confront Miles (who at full strength would use those ribs to his advantage) to save his parents, but he'd have to hurt Charlie to do it. And he'd show where his loyalties lay once and for all.

Charlie reached out a hand and braced herself on the dresser. Jason sighed. He knew what side he was on, and had for some time. Admitting it was terrifying, because it put everyone he cared for at risk. But he'd been losing confidence in his father and his general ever since Charlie Matheson had peeked into his life on that river bank. He wondered how long Miles Matheson had known. He would never have sent Charlie if he'd thought she might be further injured.

"You made Miles promise not to hurt my mother?" he asked her, drawing her attention back to him.

She nodded, and then winced. "Yeah, well, he wasn't happy. Wanted to know if I had any other requirements on my quest to save my brother. I said I'd let him know."

He smiled, as he did every time she stood up to the former general of the Monroe Militia. He'd watched Miles learn to care about her while he was their prisoner. Her charm lay in her unerring confidence that they could save Danny and still do the right thing. Often she was wrong, but that didn't mean that Miles (and Jason) didn't try to live up to that ideal for her.

"Ok, well, if I promise not to leave, will you let me look at your head?" Jason said a quick prayer that his parents would one day understand his choice, and held out his hand.

Charlie blinked at him a few times, as if she was trying to bring him into focus.

"My head? What's wrong with my head?"

"You said you fell and hit it yesterday," he explained slowly, letting his hand drop and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. She looked awful. He wondered how she'd made it through the last day, probably on just adrenaline and stubbornness. "I just want to check for bumps. Do you have a bump?"

She picked her hand up to feel for one, forgetting that it was holding her upright, and fell to her knees. Jason slid off the bed and sat in front of her, reaching out with two warm, steadying hands.

"You know, concussions can be very dangerous," he said, pulling her to sit on his lap as he gently ran his fingertips along the back of her skull.

"I don't have," she yawned and squirmed ineffectually, "no concussion."

He chuckled. "Grammar, Charlie." Then his fingers found a cherry-sized bulge and she cried out in pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "How did you not feel that last night when you lay down?"

"We," she was fighting tears, he could hear it in her voice, "we didn't sleep last night. Too much to do."

Jason was incensed. "Dammit, Miles shouldn't have let you go anywhere. You need rest."

She yawned again and leaned back into him, a totally out-of-character show of trust, which only made him worry more.

"S'what he said," she slurred, "Not safe, so awake instead. Safe here?" She barely got the question out before her eyes drifted shut in exhaustion.

Another piece of Matheson's plan clicked into place in Jason's mind as he held her. They hadn't had a safe place to sleep, so Miles had to keep her awake in order to make sure she didn't slip into unconsciousness again. But she wouldn't make it another night, so he'd chosen a house he thought he could take and defend, and sent her to Jason to make sure she was protected. At least she was through the 24 hour danger period and could sleep without needing constant waking.

Telling his protesting ribs to shut up, he gathered her into his arms and stood, laying her on the bed he'd just vacated. He draped one of his blankets over her and spoke over her sleepy protest.

"Yeah, you're safe here." At least for now, he thought with some trepidation. "Go to sleep, Charlie." When she trustingly did so, he leaned over and kissed her forehead, and then collected her weapon and bag and placed them next to his own bow, within easy reach. He reached under her head and slid his knife out from under the pillow, setting it on the table. He'd better get dressed; it looked like he had a rebellion to join.

A/N: So there you have it. I am tempted to write a bit of tense Miles and Jason dialogue, and check in on Nora and Aaron, but let's see if anyone likes this.